


Old Rags

by inbox



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Clothing, Fallout Kink Meme, Gen, Gen Work, Pregnancy, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-05
Updated: 2013-09-05
Packaged: 2017-12-25 16:46:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/955430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inbox/pseuds/inbox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gen. </p><p>The fabric was marked with yellow stains from years left folded and forgotten in his wardrobe. Boone had given it a good scrubbing and airing though, the cotton still damp to the touch and scented with Abraxo. It was cut in a style that hadn't been popular for the well-to-do expecting women in NCR City for the past decade, the front embroidered with flowers and cursed with a collar that buttoned high on the neck. It was hideous in every way, large as a tent and about as fetching, and from the look on his face Boone knew it as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Rags

Six moved to Novac in the fall of 2287. She'd finally had enough of the road and figured that it was time to stop wearing out the soles of her boots. Somewhere north of Zion she met a nice fella named Isaiah who made her heart thump and her belly flip. When he suggested it'd be nice to settle somewhere civilised, Six's thoughts turned to Novac.

By the time they moved in and turned the late Jeannie-May's house into a home fit to live in, she was five months along and starting to show. It was a wonderful moment to put two and two together and realise that she was carrying a baby. She'd never expected it to happen, not after years of scrambled cycles from bad food and bad water and a Rad-Away bag strapped to her arm. A surprise, but a wonderful surprise.

The seasons changed as the months ticked by. Six spent her days running the Novac motel with a hand resting on her belly, now plump and proud and full of baby. Isaiah cleaned up the yard and made the cabins habitable, and they made steady money housing the travellers who made their way along the broken spine of highway 95. It was a quiet and uncomplicated life they made together, and together they flourished in the small town.

 

* * *

 

It was late afternoon when Boone walked into Novac, right when the sun dipped low on the horizon and gave way to the first touch of night chill in the air. He arrived at the back of a merchant's caravan, his boots tracking in the desert dust as he dropped his bags by the motel front counter and smacked the little brass bell with his palm.

He didn't recognise Six at first. To be fair she didn't recognise him either, not when he was all rangy and lean with months worth of wiry scruff on his chin and lines worn deep at the edge of his eyes. When he asked for the key to room 6A it was as if she'd heard a voice from the grave, and she damn near spilt her glass of water in surprise.

Boone looked at her, pushed his sunglasses above his brows and stared from her hair to her look of astonishment, and all the way down to where her pregnant belly pushed firm against the Dino Dee-lite front desk. He made to say something then stopped, instead opting to snatch his his keys from the scuffed counter top and mutter a terse goodnight. She saw neither hide nor hair of him for a full day.

Six thought about knocking on his door once or twice, just to say howdy and catch up, but thought better of it when she saw the blinds drawn tight and barely a chink of light seeping out from under the door. Always been a withdrawn one, that Boone. She left a lunch pail full of fry bread and warm salt beef at his door anyway and rapped once or twice before scurrying away as fast as the baby'd let her, feeling a bit foolish all the while. It was gone when she checked back after dinner.

 

* * *

 

When Craig finally reappeared the next day he was scrubbed pink and clean shaven, wearing clothes that looked like they'd been savagely pounded clean with Abraxo flakes and elbow grease. He kept away from the crowd at Novac's communal food tent, instead leaning against the lamp post as he ate a slab of charred brahmin steak between two heels of bread and made small talk with Isaiah about wood carving and temperamental Novac plumbing. Six told him he looked well, and he shrugged and said he'd been keeping busy.

When they invited him back to their home for a nightcap he demurred for a moment; disappeared into the darkness towards the motel and eventually came back with an armful of clothes and a bottle of sharply spiced rum rattling and banging about in his lunch pail from the day before. It was from Mexico, he said. He'd been making a lot of miles over the past few years, been everywhere from the snow up north to the baking dry heat down south. Home now, he added, and looked around their little Novac house with approval. Home for a week.

They sat around the kitchen table and played cards, Six all the while regaling Isaiah with stories about when she and Boone spent a few months outrunning Deathclaws and surviving brawling bare knuckle fights with casino goons. She took a sip of rum every now and then to wet her mouth but mostly kept to her mug of stale dandelion tea, content to enjoy the sight of her husband and her old friend get ruddy-cheeked and loud.

It was good to see Boone again. She'd kept a thought for him all these years; always hoped he'd find his feet again and get some life back in his eyes. He was a good enough man at heart when his head wasn't full of noise and his spirit all but dead. Underneath that hard sad shell he'd been kind to women and soft on children, two traits severely lacking in a lot of men who lived on the frontiers and spent their life looking down a gun barrel. Maybe time had finally done a number on him, taken off all those hard edges and broken his foolish attitude to his future. Just World, Doc Gannon had called it back then. Eye for an eye, karmic retribution, all that brahminshit. Maybe he'd gotten older and softer, just like she'd done. Either way it was good to see him again, tired and alive and sitting across the table and chuckling at Isaiah's terrible jokes.

'Round eight Boone excused himself to get some air, and when he returned his arms were full of the clothes he'd carried over that evening.

"Figured there wasn't much use in hanging on to these," he said by way of explanation as he awkwardly heaped the fabric onto the table, narrowly missing her mug of tea. "You're her size."

"Craig's wife passed on," Six said by way of explanation to Isaiah, and unfolded the shirt on the top of the pile.

"Long time ago," Boone said, his chair scraping across the tile as he took his seat again. "You know."

"I do," said Isaiah. He'd been a widower when he'd met Six, long past his grief and hopeful to start his life again. It'd come up in conversation at the dinner tent, Boone seemingly genuinely interested in how someone had managed to make the legendary courier herself settle down.  
"But I reckon I need to turn in. Early day and all tomorrow. You want some extra caps, Craig? Six AM sharp, we're hauling the plumbing up out from under the courtyard." Isaiah chuckled at Boone's vehement no and drained the last dregs of his rum, leaning over to drop a kiss on Six's hair. "I'll leave you two to talk a spell. Reckon there's a lot more she don't want me to know 'bout her wild days."

"Goodnight you old fool," said Six kindly, and watched him close the bedroom door.

"How'd you find a fella to put up with you?"

"Well, I'll be," said Six. "Are you making a joke? Craig Boone must've hit his head somewhere and found a sense of humour."

Boone grinned behind his glass, taking her ribbing in stride. The good mood suited him, she thought. He seemed like a whole new person without that black cloud hanging over his head.

"Hold 'em up for size," he said, pushing the clothes towards her. "Dresses and shirts. Maybe they'll be useful."

There were a few items in the bundle he'd given her, NCR dress uniform shirts with the collars rubbed thin, simple yardwork shirts cut for a man with strong shoulders, and dresses that billowed in great shapeless waves of cotton. He reached over and rubbed his thumb along the collar of a particular dress, and she resisted the impulse to pat his hand. Instead she took the dress and rubbed the fabric between her fingers, holding it to her neck and letting it drop over the curve of her belly.

The fabric was marked with yellow stains from years left folded and forgotten in his wardrobe. Boone had given it a good scrubbing and airing though, the cotton still damp to the touch and scented with Abraxo. It was cut in a style that hadn't been popular for the well-to-do expecting women in NCR City for the past decade, the front embroidered with flowers and cursed with a collar that buttoned high on the neck. It was hideous in every way, large as a tent and about as fetching, and from the look on his face Boone knew it as well.

"She never much liked it," he said by way of conversation. "Said it itched her neck."

"I bet you bought this," Six said, smoothing the fabric and smiling at him. "Bet you got dazzled by one of the rag traders and their ritzy city fashion and picked it out yourself."

"Yeah," said Boone, and he almost smiled back. "Not much out there for a woman as broad as a barn."

"You've got some cheek." She folded it and set it back on the pile, avoiding the urge to grab him by the chin and inspect him like a recalcitrant child. Hell, as if he needed Courier herself to double-check his motives and make sure he wasn't making a mistake. She never gave him enough credit back then, and old habits died hard. "I can fix you up with some caps tomorrow."

"Don't bother. They're old rags, but better all of her clothes get some wear."

"Mhmm." Six silently debated over how best to articulate her thoughts, that _you might need these some day_. "I'll look after them."

"Hell, cut 'em into spare cloth for all I care. They're yours now." His voice was soft despite the veneer of bluster and bravado.

"Rubbish. I'll wear 'em until I pop, then there's a handful of ladies who'll all be showing by the time I'm done with Carla's clothes." Six grinned at him and decided to pat his hand anyway. "By my reckoning you've just clothed half the women of Novac. Think any of them will name their babies in your honour?"

"Now you're dribbling brahminshit," he said, and tipped his glass up to chase the last dregs of rum. "Change the subject."

"Fine," she said, and put her feet up on Isaiah's chair. Her ankles ached after a day standing behind that motel counter, swollen and sore and aching. Only a month to go, then she figured she'd be too busy keeping a squalling baby happy to worry about her feet. She pointed her toes and took her mug of cold tea in her hands, and gave Craig Boone a warm smile. "So tell me what you've been up to all these years, Craig. I want to know how you've been."

 

* * *

 

Craig Boone left Novac a week or two later. He shook Isaiah's hand and pecked Six on the cheek, and said he'd be back in a month or two when the water caravans passed back through the Mojave Outpost. A couple of months passed, then more and more; the seasons going from cool to warm and cool again without Boone ever making good on his promise to drop by again.

Six hoped Boone'd settled somewhere and found himself someone who made his eyes light up and made him forget all about Novac and the memories he kept locked up there. A foolish and romantic hope, but it was more of a comfort than the thought that Craig died somewhere lonesome and distant, the victim of an ambush or his own foolishness or worse.

Isaiah packed up Craig's few belongings and carefully scratched off the name BOONE from the key to room 6A. He filled an old suitcase with Boone's few clothes and books and a few faded pictures of a pretty woman with big dark eyes and a crooked smile, and stored it under their daughter's bed. _Just in case_ , he said, and took Six's hand and kissed her knuckles. Maybe he'd come back for them one day.


End file.
